Why I Don't Believe in Love

We would probably meet in a park. You would approach me to ask what
book it was I was reading. And thus it would begin. The love. An
instant attraction. A gravitational force pulling us towards each
other. Because you "aren't in the habit of talking to strange women in
the park." You said that it exuded a sense of desperation to talk to
strangers. I had always thought of it as being romantic.

And so we would probably start with a conversation about the book I had
been reading. And then we would talk about the latest play you had been
to see in the Experimental Theatre Festival. And then there would be an
awkward silence. One that both of us would try to fill at the exact
same moment. And the silence would be followed by our laughter.

We would proceed to fall madly in love with one another. Although all
my friends would probably warn against it. As they usually tend to do.
But we would pay no heed. We would spend night after night together -
at the opera, the theatre, would go to poetry readings, have quiet
dinners together - just the two of us - and I would fall asleep on your
shoulder in the taxi on the way home.

Our life would be near perfect.

On our wedding day, my mother would give me a blue bead to keep with me
through the ceremony, "to keep the evil eye away." And I would laugh,
much to her disapproval. "Don't take these forces lightly. They could
tear the two of you apart." And I would just nod and smile. Thinking
that the two of us were invincible.

So I would walk down the aisle. Soraya ululating. My mother crying. And
you, looking at me as though I was the only person in that church. And
I would become your wife. That night, I would give myself to you, and
the next morning I would try to explain how "right" it felt. That I
understood why I had waited all this time. And I wouldn't be able to
find the right words. Wouldn't be able to put it into any coherent
explanation. And you would smile, kiss me, and tell me that you wanted
to make it feel "right" again. And I would give in.

We would be happy. A nice home. Pets. And a white picket fence. We
would come home from work each evening into each others arms.

Things would be near perfect.

And then one Saturday afternoon, I would go for coffee with a friend.
Probably Soraya.. The same friend who warned me against you in the
first place. And as we would walk into the caf?, I would be faced with
a sight that would break my heart. You. Sitting. Head lowered. As you
whispered into the ear of another woman. And she would laugh in the
exact same way you made me laugh.

And the near perfect love story would break into a million
pieces.

You would look up. Look straight at me. The ghost of the smile still
lingering in your eyes. Until you would realize it was your wife
staring at you in disbelief. The smile would fade. You would get up -
as though in slow motion. Walk towards me. "I can explain." You would
say, "it's not what it looks like." And I would be transfixed by the
lipstick on your collar. Thinking. My life has become a clich?.

And I would walk away from you silently. Soraya by my side, glaring at
the man who used to be my husband, for my benefit.

And the near perfect love story would end all over again

And I'll try to figure out when it stopped feeling right. And never
come to any conclusion. My mother will blame it on the evil eye. And
I'll blame it on talking to strangers in the park.